Macabre
by Respice Finem
Summary: When heroism turned to murder, he was resolved that he could do nothing but watch the world burn. This is the Waterloo of a monstrosity that dares call itself human.


The legion of metallic soldiers barricades the route to the robotic behemoth that shields his enemy and imprisons his friend. Rushing forward at an astonishing velocity, he jumps and coils into a tight, serrated ball and tears through them, the violent sound of the rending of metal resounding through the battlefield. The sparking hulls of what had been robots clatter to the floor behind him as he continues.

And there was his criminal, protected by layers of steel and wiring and gripping the controls of the mechanical fortress. He charges toward it, only to be hindered by another onslaught of robots. He forces an increase in speed, leaning forward and barreling headfirst through the blockade. The downed machinery is immediately replaced and multiplied tenfold, surrounding him. Bullets begin to fly at him from every direction. He leaps to avoid them and is instead caught in the side by an airborne robot. Losing control of his body, his forward momentum carries him only so far before he crashes into several other infantry, completely totaling them and snapping a rib in the process.

He clutches his side and grits his teeth. His bones ache as he stands and begins again. A multitude of larger troops surround him as he advances, swiping at him with massive, cumbersome appendages. He ducks and slides under them before springing toward an aerial chunk of machinery, coiling again and using it as a stepping-stone. He bounds off of it and slams into another robot, and another, before uncurling and falling spread-eagled, examining the layout of the battlefield and spotting danger.

Homing missiles had locked on to him, the grey steam trailing from their ends revealing their origin. A malevolent glint in his adversary's spectacles can be seen as he calibrates the machine for another launch.

He bites his lip and curls again into a ball, expediting his fall. The missiles follow. He rebounds and uncoils, stumbling for a moment before sprinting away from the incoming ammunition. He weaves between the enemy's robots with masterful precision and perks his ears to listen for the subsequent explosions, signifying the destruction of the torpedoes as they miss their target and hit instead the surrounding bots.

He falters, gasping in pain as he is impaled just below his right shoulder blade by a rogue piece of shrapnel. He continues to run, deftly gripping the fragment with his left hand and extracting it. A cry escapes him as its sharp edges slice through his glove and pierce his skin. He hisses, wrenches it from his body and discards it as more missiles approach.

He dodges another bombardment and vaults onto his objective, using his speed to defy gravity and reach the hull of the colossus. Rolling again into a ball, he becomes a living blade, the sawtooth edges of his form penetrating the fuselage and ripping through it. The agonizing noise of the scraping of metal filled the air once again.

He straightens and stands on the edge of the opening he had made in the structure, fizzling wires encompassing him. He is just in time to see his friend in the grip of a winged robot, struggling and screeching as she is lifted out of the ship, the towering mammoth of a ship, where the fall was surely fatal…

He turns to his cackling foe, who retreats to an escape pod.

His rage grows and he destroys all that he can see.

The machinery groans as the steel titan buckles. His enemy barely evades ruin as he ejects the pod and promptly withdraws, abandoning the battle, speeding away from the arena.

He lands and starts after his aggressor before the clamoring of his familiar reaches his ears. He skids to a halt and looks skyward.

She is tumbling headfirst to the desert below.

He growls in frustration at the possible loss of his chance to apprehend his opponent and tears after his companion. Accelerating briefly, he leaps and snatches her out of the sky. The vertebrae in her neck protest the whiplash, and she recognizes the sticky warmth of blood seeping through her clothing from her rescuer's body. She grips his shoulders in a petrified daze and continues to scream as he sails through the air before grounding. He lowers the terrified girl gently to the floor and shouts a word of caution to her before he begins his pursuit.

The chase ensues.

The steady rhythm of his feet on the floor hastens to a purr as he pushes himself faster to make up for lost time. His heart pounds in his chest, which heaves with each labored intake of breath. Grit billows behind him. His sneakers barely touch the earth, and his vision blurs as his eyes struggle to focus on anything static in a rapidly changing landscape.

The villain is no match for his speed.

In seconds flat, the hero has reached the hovercraft, gliding at many times his height. He strains his enervated legs, steeling them for one final hurdle—

He springs into the air, coils, and cleaves the pod in half.

The enemy is forcefully flung before him, bouncing once and rolling to the side.

At last.

His adversary lies at his feet, frozen in terror for a brief second before hastily scrambling to his knees, begging for his life and vowing fraudulent redemption in a final cowardly, craven attempt at escape.

This is it.

His chance.

Probably the last one he will ever have.

And with every fiber of his being, he wishes it on someone else.

He aches to relinquish his position as a hero, to desert, to avoid the decision that he cannot venture to make. When heroism turned to murder, he was resolved that he could do nothing but watch the world burn.

But now?

The world's greatest menace was at his feet, forced to rely on his goodwill. Could he forgive his own leniency and allow the acquittal of a butcher?

No. Never.

He chooses instead to sneer in unprecedented revulsion and finish what no one else can.

This is the Waterloo of a monstrosity that dares call itself human.

He holds his breath to conceal his exhaustion and wipes his face of expression, stoic as he advances toward his hysterical foe, who repeats his extensive tale of atonement in the hope of mercy.

None is revealed.

Frantic pleading. A terse scream pierces the placid desert air. The revolting sound of the tearing of skin and muscle and the splintering of bone reverberates through the sky. Silence.

He touches down on the earthen terrain behind his victim. His sneakers scuff against the ground. A sizable dust cloud is left in his wake, which veils the corpse of his combatant.

As the dust settles, the fruits of his performance were made evident.

The man is mutilated beyond recognition. His body lies in virtually two pieces, connected by a delicate cord of flesh. His entrails are exposed, detached from his carcass and completely eviscerated. His ribs are visible, exhibiting the multitude of fractures and breaks he sustains. Blood pools on the ground around his mangled form. His marred features are twisted into a perpetual echo of his final scream.

The hero's eyes widen and his pupils dilate; his lips part slightly. He quivers as he tentatively raises his hands into his line of view. His gloves are soaked in red liquid.

His entire body is smeared with gore.

Terror and nausea invade his gut, and he violently empties his stomach onto the earth beside him. His vomit defaces the lustrous surface of a former robot. His throat tightens and he chokes as he tries to cry out.

She scans the horizon, frantically searching for a patch of blue to contrast against the tawny monotone of the landscape and deep purples of the setting sun. Spotting him in the distance, she sprints toward him before abruptly stopping in her tracks. She gapes at the corpse with abhorrence and disgust, paralyzed, refusing to accept that he had committed such an abominable act. Her stomach lurches and she turns away, shunning the horrifying sight to focus instead on her savior.

She stares in disbelieving terror as he collapses in anguish. He breaks, he crumbles; he drops to his knees and cries senselessly as he succumbs to his self-directed animosity.

She barely hears his hoarse whisper.

"_My _hands_, Amy… They're stained with his…"_

She throws her arms around his violently shuddering frame, her petite body trembling as she sobs.

Her tears pepper his fur and rinse away the dried blood.


End file.
